


a little more touch my body

by troubledpancakes



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Fraternities & Sororities, Inner Circle shenanigans, Past Feylin, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-23
Updated: 2017-01-04
Packaged: 2018-08-10 15:14:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7850056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/troubledpancakes/pseuds/troubledpancakes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>belligerent sexual tension in the Greek court.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> this started out as a "kiss me quick my ex is here" drabble to probably being more, so I figured I'd add it here for anyone to keep up with. this will more than likely become smutty, thus the 'm' rating. this is my first foray into writing for feyrhys, so be gentle.

Feyre thinks she can handle it. 

The Greek Court Spring Social should be  _nothing_ , just a bunch of people from her classes, sweaty bodies gyrating to crappy house music and a little bit of alcohol. _No big deal._

She leans against a wall, half-listening to Cassian and Nesta argue about… socks with sandals? Or the pros and cons of same-sex bathrooms? She doesn’t really know, instead she gazes around the room watching Mor twirl in the middle of the room, effectively having all the guys on the floor eating out of the palm of her hand. Sitting on a barstool somewhere in the corner, Azriel sips on an Old Fashioned with a stony expression beside Rhys, exuding both boredom and amusement all at once, how he manages it, Feyre has no clue.

Feyre is seemingly enjoying herself, that is until she spots Lucien enter on the far side of the room. Panic bubbles up inside of her as she knows, where Lucien, Tamlin is surely close behind.

Elain yelps in surprise from where she stood talking to a group of girls, and Feyre swallows thickly as she watches her cross the room and find Lucien, hugging him briefly before dragging him to get a drink. She doesn’t miss how hard Elain avoids her gaze.

As soon as they vacate the entrance, Tamlin steps into the room, hands shoved into his pocket as he searches the crowd.

 _Fuck._  

Feyre looks around for somewhere to put her drink down. She twirls around, trying to find someone to engage in conversation as quickly as possible, only to find that Cassian and Nesta have fused their lips together, pressed together against the wall. 

Groaning, she starts to push her way through the crowd. Somehow in the last thirty seconds, everyone has either coupled up or gone home because no one will catch her eye… except.

_Rhys._

Rhys who sits behind her in PoliSci, feet propped up on her chair. Rhys who doesn’t take notes, but aces every test anyways. Rhys who is infuriatingly attractive and has a permanent smirk on his face.

She groans again and redirects her feet to carry her towards him, sitting on a bar stool in the corner. Slotting herself close to his side, hand on his knee, she whispers harshly, “Pretend like we’re talking and having a good time.”

Rhys cocks his head. “We are talking, Feyre, darling.”

She shoots him a look. “Fine, _I’ll_  pretend like I’m having a good time and you can just be an ass.”

Rhys laughs, and Feyre tries to ignore the heat radiating from his leg where her hand rests.

Out of the corner of her eye, she can see Tamlin, making his way towards their spot. Rhys turns his head slightly, finally catching onto her charade.

He leans in close, his lips brushing her ear. “Oh, I see.” 

His breath is hot and a shiver jolts through her, and heat coils low in her belly.

“Shut up, just– help me out, okay?”

Feyre leans in and laughs vibrantly at a non-existent joke.

“He’s still coming, Feyre, darling,” Rhys purrs. 

His breath tickles her cheek as she glances towards her ex-boyfriend, praying he’ll stop his advances.

In an instantaneous decision Feyre turns her head, capturing Rhys’ lips with her own. He lets out a surprised _yelp_  before relaxing into it. It true fashion, Rhys makes a show of tangling one hand in her hair and settling the other on her hip, tugging her in closer. 

The kiss is innocent enough at first, a firm, chaste pressure, though Feyre is certain she can almost taste the whiskey. She can’t help but let out a soft moan when Rhys slips the tips of his fingers beneath the hem of her top, thumb rubbing along the soft skin above her waistband.

Feyre makes another split second decision and slides her tongue along the seam of his lips, and he opens for her eagerly. The noise around them seems to dull, and her ears now roar, blood rushing through her, electricity humming through every vein in her body. Rhys’ hand travels around her midsection, his palm pressing flat against the small of her back.

Rhys’ spins the stool towards her, and Feyre steps in between his legs. He drops the hand from her hair and places it on her hip as well. Her hands grasp at his shirt and she takes another step closer, their bodies flush. 

Tilting her head to the side, Feyre grants Rhys better access, and she feels his teeth scrape and pull on her bottom lip gently. She slams her eyes shut when he drags his mouth away, dropping wet kisses along her jaw until he reaches her throat. Her whole body arches into his when he nibbles at the sensitive spot below her ear.

Everything around them is forgotten until Azriel clears his throat. 

Feyre jumps back, straightening her clothes.

“He’s gone,” Az says dutifully. 

She swallows thickly, face burning and glances up quickly at Rhys, who looks equally as wrecked.

“I–uh, yeah, thanks for that and um–” Feyre stutters. “I’m gonna… go.” She gestures vaguely over her shoulder and licks her lips. “Thanks again.”

Feyre pushes her way back through the crowd, Tamlin having vacated the room. She grabs a cup from the nearest table and downs it in one go, trying to ignore the pleasant humming below her skin. 

_What the fuck was that?_

Across the room Azriel raises an eyebrow at Rhys.

“What?” Rhys scoffs.

Azriel says nothing but gives him a _look_.

“Shut up,” Rhys grumbles and rubs his thumb at the corner of his lip, coming away with a swipe of red lipstick.

Rhys’ eyes travel back across the room where Feyre now stands, trying to strike up a conversation with Amren. He watches her subtly glance over in his direction before snapping her attention back to Am, sporting an array of ornate jewelry and sipping on a deep red wine. Only Amren would drink wine at a Greek social.

Reaching behind him, Rhys finds the bottle of whiskey he’d been sharing with Azriel and downs a large gulp.

Azriel snorts, and Rhys glares at him.

“Oh, you are so fucked, Rhysand.”


	2. Chapter 2

“What do you mean we’re partnering with Theta Delts for Skit Week?” Feyre gapes at Mor. 

Mor rolls her eyes. “You heard what I said. We all have to partner with a Frat, and my cousin–”

“Rhys.”

“ _My cousin_ ,” Mor grits out impatiently. “Came to me and asked if we wanted to partner up, I said yes.”

“Mor–” Feyre starts.

“Fey, I’m the chapter president, it’s my call.”

Feyre shakes her head. 

She has mostly avoided him since the social, purposely sitting in the back row of class between other students; rushing out before class is dismissed. She didn’t think she could face him after _the Incident_ , completely aware of how her body reacted afterwards. She hates herself for the amount of time she spent in the shower with her vibrator, wishing it was his hands in place of it.

“… so, Friday at three… Feyre? Are you still listening to me?”

Pink floods Feyre’s cheeks and she snaps her attention back to Mor, sitting against the headboard of her bed. “What? Yes,” she says, almost too quickly.

Mor shrugs and continues, “You’re supposed to meet with their Activities Chair, Friday at three at Rainbow Hall. Got it?”

“Got it,” Feyre says, rolling her eyes and tossing at pillow in Mor’s direction.  _“Jesus.”_

* * *

Friday rolls around and Feyre rolls up to Rainbow hall at 2:56, she scans the room quickly looking for the Theta Delta Activity Chair, she couldn’t remember his name but she knows she’ll recognize him. Her eyes roam over the crowd and before she can take another step, there’s Rhys, taking up way too much room on one side of a booth, black t-shit, black jeans, black boots. 

She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. 

After counting to three, she opens her eyes and strolls over to the booth. “I thought I was supposed to be meeting with the Activity Chair.”

Rhys flashes a smile at her. “Kallias has a major paper this week, so I told him I would take over Skit Week duties for him.”

His violet eyes twinkled with innocence and Feyre tries to hide her smile by rolling her eyes. “Convenient.”

“Isn’t it?”

Feyre drops her bag into the booth across from him and slides in, resting her elbows on the table.

“You hungry? You’re looking a little thin lately.”

Feyre flares her nose. “Hasn’t anyone ever told you not to comment on a woman’s weight? It’s rude.”

“Forgive me, Feyre, darling. I didn’t mean anything by it,” Rhys says, suddenly serious. “I just know you’ve had a rough couple of weeks, you’ve lost a little bit of your glow.”

Feyre deflates a little bit, mostly because he isn’t wrong. 

Rhys leans forward. “Seriously, though, Feyre. If you ever need someone to talk to– or yell at, I’m here.”

Feyre studies him for a moment, then nods. “Um, thanks.”

She feels his eyes on her still and she’s forced to drop her gaze to the notebook sitting before her, cheeks hot. “So, Skit Week.”

* * *

_“No, no, no, no.”_

“Feyre, c’mon.”

Feyre stops, spinning back around to look at him. “Rhys, it was supposed to be me and Tarquin.”

“I can’t help it if he got sick! I know the part! What’s the problem?”

Feyre groans. 

“Feyre, we have an _hour_  before we’re supposed to go on. Would you rather kiss _Cassian?”_

“What? No!” Feyre scoffs.

Rhys throws his hands up in the air. “Well, then! You’re stuck with me.”

“Fuck you,” she says, with little heat, tragically failing to keep from smiling.

He grins back at her. “C’mon Feyre,” he says, low, so only she can hear. “I know you’ve been dying to kiss me again since that night.”

She snorts. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Rhys drags his eyes over her, her cheeks and chest notably pink, and cocks an eyebrow.

“Shut up,” she grumbles.

“I didn’t say _anything.”_

* * *

_“Rhys–”_ she pants, one hand pressed to his chest, the other tangled in the hair at the nape of his neck. Following their on-stage tryst, Feyre had grabbed Rhys and pulled him into the alleyway behind the theater.

He growls into her collarbone, nipping at it playfully. Feyre gives his hair a light tug and Rhys pulls back, mouth red and swollen as he gazes down at her.

“What?” he asks, hoarsely.

Feyre stares at his lips, her body aching for them elsewhere. “I–what are we doing?” she asks quietly.

“Do we really need to have a lecture on sexual psyche right now, Feyre, darling?”

“Don’t be an asshole.” She pushes him back a step, so she can pull herself up off the wall. “I’m–” Feyre runs a hand through her hair, trying to catch her breath as she steps out from between Rhys’ legs.

“What is it you _want_ , Feyre?” Rhys asks.

She turns back to face him, and she melts all over again. Rhys just standing there, his hair mussed up, his flannel shirt haphazardly unbuttoned. Forcing herself to turn away again, Feyre trying to will her body into submission, will it to somehow stop reacting the way it was, the _wanting_.

Rhys takes a step towards her, and she can feel his breath on her neck. He slides one hand down her side and settles on her hip.

“What,” he purrs once more in her ear, “do you want?” He drags the words out slowly, and his grip tightens around her waist.

Feyre doesn’t know what else to say in the moment other than, “ _You.”_


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> one thing leads to another

Feyre leans against him as they sit close together in the Uber, his hand wrapped around her thigh. They both live on Greek row, but Rhys has his own room in the house and Feyre didn’t want to think about if Alis or, worse, Mor, caught them sneaking up to her room.

Her heart pounds in her ears, and she just kind of goes through the motions as Rhys thanks the driver and pulls her out of the car, hand resting on the small of her back. 

Rhys procures a key from his pocket and Feyre stands behind him, closely, snaking her arms around him and nosing at his spine. 

He leans back into her for a moment before she hears the lock slide and then the door swings open. 

“C’mon,” he whispers and Feyre trails behind him as he climbs the stairs to the second level. 

His room is dark and Feyre looks around. She hears his keys clink down against his dresser just inside the entrance and he glides past her to switch on the lamp beside his bed. In the soft light, she takes in the surroundings. Rhys is much neater than she expected, no clothes haphazardly tossed around the room, his bookshelves organized and full. 

Rhys clears his throat, hands shoved into his pockets from where he stands just a few feet away.

Her heart jumps to her throat and she takes a slow, steadying breath and then a small step towards him. 

“Are you sure?” he asks, unsure. “That this--” he gestures between them, “--is what you want?”

Feyre swallows. “I--” she starts. “I can’t really explain it, Rhys.” Her voice is quiet, hesitant, but she takes another step closer and Rhys mirrors her movement. Her eyes find his. “I can’t explain why I want this, but I _do_ , and I don’t really want to think about it, or talk about it.”

“We don’t have to talk,” he says hoarsely and takes one last step in her direction, now close enough to reach out and touch her. His fingers ghost up her arm and he feels her shiver, his hands settles on her neck, thumb caressing just below her jaw. Feyre leans into his touch and closes her eyes. 

Rhys waits another beat until Feyre makes the slightest whimper from the back of her throat. Leaning in slowly, his lips find her jaw, dropping one kiss after the other as he trails his way down to her throat. 

Feyre’s hands find his shirt and tug him closer, but she doesn’t open her eyes, only lolls her head slightly to give him greater access to her neck. Rhys’ other hand has settled on her hip, gripping her tightly as they sway gently in the middle of the room. The hand on her neck drops slowly, spreading out over her chest, thumb running along her clavicle, his palm resting just on top of her breast. 

Where it was hurried and messy in the alleyway, it’s slow and measured in this room. Rhys begins to walk them backwards, his lips finally finding hers eagerly. Feyre lets out a breathy moan against his lips and Rhys slips his tongue into her mouth. 

The backs of her knees hit the edge of the bed and before she falls, Rhys’ hands skim over her body, scooping her up and dropping her further back onto the mattress. His body follows, covering hers with his weight, their clothed bodies brushing up against each other. One of Rhys’ legs wedges between hers and she grinds shamelessly. 

Over her blouse, Rhys roams her body, pawing at her breast and sliding over her stomach until he slips beneath it, his hand hot against her skin. He searches until he finds the clasp on her jeans, popping it open and dipping his fingers below the waistband. Feyre arches up, urging him forward. He finds her wet and wanting and she wants explode the second he slides his fingers through her folds. 

Feyre twists her head to the side, breaking apart from their kiss and cursing.

“Fuck, Feyre,” Rhys says, burying his face into her chest, nosing at the fabric. “You’re _so_ wet,” he breathes.

Feyre lets out a shallow breath. “It-it’s been a while,” she manages, his fingers moving torturously slow through the slickness between her thighs. 

“How long?” he says, nipping at her collarbone as his thumb presses into her clit briefly.

“Mon-- _ah_ , _fuck_ ,-- months before Tam and I broke up.” Her eyes are shut and her body rocks against his hand.

Rhys’ drops to his elbow on his free arm, reaching his hand across to brush the hair from Feyre’s forehead. “You broke up almost a year ago.” 

He stills, but doesn’t remove his hand from her pants and Feyre turns her head, her eyes opening lazily. She hums sadly in response. 

“Someone like you deserves to be _ravished_ , to be _worshipped.”_

Feyre feels her entire body prickle with heat and Rhys’ hand begins to move again. She fists her hands into his comforter and pushes against his strokes. He works quicker this time, inserting a finger inside of her and curling up to find that spot. 

“ _Rhys_ ,” she pants, arching off the bed. 

The pressure builds low in her belly, her whole body curling in on it self. She comes hard with his thumb circling her clit and his fingers inside of her, his mouth swallowing her moans. 

Rhys doesn’t stop right away, only slows his fingers to allow Feyre to ride out the wave of pleasure coursing through her. Carefully, he retracts his fingers from her pants and brings them to his mouth, cleaning them thoroughly. 

Finally opening her eyes, Feyre finds him watching her quietly. She smiles, sated and jelly-like, sucking her bottom lip between her teeth. It’s a few minutes before she regains her composure enough to roll onto her side and look at him fully, her jeans still undone and her shirt rucked up.

“What are you thinking?” Rhys muses.

Feyre’s lips tug into a playful grin and she tiptoes her fingers up his chest. “I’m _thinking_ that you’re wearing too much clothing.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> drop by [tumblr](http://skycourt.tumblr.com) and yell at me


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a thing, definitely a thing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> pls don't hate me, i know it's been forever, hopefully this makes up for it :)
> 
> thx [cardinalrachelieu](http://archiveofourown.org/users/cardinalrachelieu/pseuds/cardinalrachelieu) for reading over this and for the feedback, my trash smut queen.

Feyre starts to feel her senses flutter awake, the uncomfortable urge to pee pressing against her desire to stay asleep. The room fills with light, streaming in from the half-closed blinds warming her bare back. The sheet sits just above her ass, and she is suddenly aware of Rhys’ hand wrapped around her thigh below the thin fabric. Turning her face, she eyes his sleeping figure, curled on his side around her.

She is completely naked and she pushes up on her elbows briefly, reaching out to brush away a stray hair from Rhys’ forehead.

“Hey Rhys, have you seen-- oh _shit_.”

Feyre yelps and flops back down, scrambling to cover herself with the sheet. Rhys jolts awake, jumping to his feet in confusion.

“Jesus Christ, Rhys!” Cassian throws his arm over his eyes, stumbling over Feyre’s shoes. He nearly runs into the wall.

“Cassian!” Rhys growls, pulling on a pair of sweatpants from the floor.

“I was just looking for my sweatshirt!”

“Get out!”

Cassian lowers his hands and winks at Feyre, now sitting up with the sheets pulled up over her body in the bed, mortified. He makes a smart comment and Rhys shoves him out the door, slamming it behind him.

Rhys drops his head against the door, taking a deep breath before he finds Feyre’s gaze again.

“I am _so_ sorry.” 

Feyre grows pink, her heart fluttering slightly. “It’s okay.”

He crosses the room and crawls back onto the bed, cups the back of her neck and draws her into a kiss. She stiffens at first, nervous, but then her hands release the sheet and slide around his warm torso, scratching against the divots in his back lightly. 

Rhys pulls back and presses a sweet kiss to her forehead and Feyre flushes, her hands coming together in her lap. He hops back off the bed and grabs a shirt from the chair in the corner, slipping on some socks and shoes to go along with it. When he looks back up, Feyre is still perched near the pillows, bare breasted, covered only by the sheets around her waist. 

He feels his heart hammer against his ribcage. 

“I’m, uh, I’m going to grab us some breakfast,” he says, slowly, watching her shift on the bed.

Feyre nods and offers him a smile. “Okay.”

“Be back in like, ten minutes-- fifteen tops.” He holds her gaze, trying to gauge where she’s at.

“ _Okay!”_ she laughs. Rhys leans in and kisses her again, and Feyre pushes against his chest. “Go!”

The moment he closes the door behind him her phone buzzes from the pocket of her jeans. 

 _Bzzt. Bzzt._  

She huffs and leans over the edge of the bed to grab it, unlocking the screen and almost immediately regretting the decision. 

 **nesta [09:17]**  FEYRE WHAT THE FUCK

 **nesta [09:17]** cassian better bE FUCKING WITH ME

 **nesta [09:18]** this is a JOKE right?

 **nesta [09:18]** FEYRE NOEL ARCHERON

 **nesta [09:18]** GOD DAMN IT ANSWER YOUR MESSAGES

Feyre thinks about it for all of five seconds before locking her screen again and tossing the phone onto the mattress. Flopping back, she stretches out her pleasantly sore muscles. 

She knows, in the logical part of her brain, that she should just leave. She should get dressed, put on her shoes and leave. But the other part of her, the illogical, instinct-driven part of her anchors her. 

Instead, she pulls herself out of the bed and saunters over to the bathroom, grabbing one of Rhys’ shirts before closing herself in. Feyre turns the faucet on hot and lets the bathroom fill up with steam before she steps under the stream of water. 

Rhys has a dark bottle of fancy shampoo, worth more than anything she’d ever put in her hair to wash out later, that smells like citrus. She squeezes out a dollop and lathers it through her hair, letting the soapy residue run down her body.

After she rinses, Feyre towels off briefly and grabs for the shirt she’d picked up from the floor, pulling it on. Her damp hair clings to her neck so she continues to work the towel against it as she exits the bathroom-- finding Rhys standing with his back to her, deflated.

“Hey,” she says, and Rhys spins around, nearly dropping the drink carrier in his hands.

“Oh,” he says, almost _relieved_. “I thought, um--” He thrusts the drink carrier towards her. “I didn’t know what you liked, so I just got everything.” 

Feyre smiles and steps forward, ignoring the drinks. She presses up on her toes and kisses him, and Rhys tries to wrap the arm carrying a paper bag around her back. 

“Did you think I was going to leave?” she asks, dropping back.

“I, uh,” Rhys shrugs, “I thought you might have.”

Feyre licks her lips. “I thought about it.”

“But you’re still here.”

“I’m still here,” she says. “Also, that is the fanciest damn bottle of shampoo I have ever seen. How much does that put you out?” She grins at him playfully.

Rhys can’t help but smile and he finds an empty spot on his desk to put breakfast and coffee down before scooping her back up. He immediately grabs her thighs and hauls her up, Feyre's’ legs wrapping around his middle like they’d done this a million times. He knows instantly she did _not_  put her underwear back on and he groans.

Feyre grinds down and Rhys can barely keep his balance, sinking his teeth into her shoulder and carrying her towards the bed. Her-- _his_ shirt rides up when he drops her onto the mattress. She let’s out a laugh and his heart swells, god, he is gone. He lets out a sharp breath, peeling off his own shirt and tossing it aside before crawling over her. Her core is already damp and she ruts against the leg he’s wedged between her thighs. Rhys slides his hands over her belly, moving upward and taking the shirt with him. When he reaches her breasts, his thumbs brush over her peaked nipples and she shivers. Her skin is soft and unblemished, and his the pads of his fingers tickle her sides and she squirms with a laugh against his lips. 

He whispers for her to help and she lifts her arms above her head, sitting up just enough so Rhys can pull the shirt over her head. Feyre toes at the waistband of his pants as he kisses the top of her breast. He can almost feel her heartbeat beating out a tattoo against his hand where is rests below her breast for a second. Rhys continues to lave his tongue over her tits as he attempts to shove his sweats down to release his cock. 

They are finally both naked and Feyre grabs his jaw and pulls him up for a kiss, a messy clash of teeth and tongue. Her fingers tangle in his hair as his hands run up and down her side. Feyre takes the opportunity to flip them, and Rhys’ hands fly to her hips as she hovers over him. 

She quickly ties her still damp hair up in a messy bun and Rhys takes a moment to cup her breasts, Feyre’s breath hitching. She is a wonder, a marvel above him.

“You have such great fucking tits,” he says, and Feyre throws her head back a little, letting Rhys work the fevered flesh. He tugs at one of her nipples and it sends a jolt of arousal straight to her core. Feyre drops her hands to Rhys’ chest and begins to shift downward. Lowering her head, she runs her tongue along the outline of his naval, pressing a kiss to each side of the vee of his hips. 

Taking him in her hand, Rhys’ eyes slam shut as she begins to work up and down slowly. 

He is hot and heavy and hard as she pumps, swiping her thumb across the tip. Feyre lowers her mouth to his cock and slowly licks a stripe upwards before taking him fully. She sucks and licks, working her hands at the base, rolling his balls in one hand. Rhys’ reaches down to tangle his fingers in her hair, thoroughly ruining the bun, causing loose strands to fall. 

Feyre’s head continues to bob, her own moans vibrating against his cock and causing Rhys to pant. “Feyre, _fuck._ Hang on, babe, not yet,” he grits out, tugging on her hair. Feyre releases him with a _pop!_  and wipes her mouth. Rhys groans and pulls her over him, kissing her fiercely. His arm shoots out and blindly searches for a condom until he finds one. Feyre takes it, rips it open and rolls it onto him, sinking down in a nearly fluid motion. 

They both sigh, a moment of forgotten arguments and unresolved tensions dissolving as he fills her up. It takes only a second for Feyre to adjust to the feel of him inside of her before she starts moving. She was already wet and worked up from the sight of him first thing this morning and his relief that she hadn’t left and the blowjob and just-- something about him drove her absolutely _mad._

She starts slowly, rolling her whole body as Rhys watches her from below, his hands digging into her thighs as he thrusts to meet her each time. His eyes watching her with wonder and intrigue. Once they find a rhythm, Feyre gets vocal, and Rhys knows he is ruined for all women.

“Rhys, _fuck_ , okay, okay, okay,” she says hoarsely, panting through each syllable. “Right there, okay, _fuck_ , yes.”

“Keep it up and you might scar Cassian for life,” Rhys says, gritting out a groan when Feyre circles her hips. 

“Don’t want to talk about Cassian when you’ve got your cock buried inside me, Rhys.”

She cries out briefly when Rhys sits up, snaking an arm around her back and tugging her close. The angle hits her _just right_ and she continues to bounce, breasts dragging against his sweaty chest. Feyre grapples with his shoulders when he ducks down to take a nipple in his mouth, flicking his tongue over the sensitive peak. 

“C’mon on, babe,” Rhys encourages as she starts to flutter around him, her movements growing more uncontrolled. He slips a hand between them to thumb at her clit, rubbing small, tight circles against it. 

“ _C-close_ , Rhys, _fuck,”_ she pants into his ear and it feels like a white hot star is about to explode inside her.

“You can come for me, Feyre, darling,” he whispers.

With a final swipe of his thumb Feyre shudders, ecstasy surging through her as her walls tighten around him. Rhys swallows her cry with his mouth, licking into her with a fierce desire as he continues to chase his own release, stars falling around them, coming just a few thrusts later. 

Rhys drops back, Feyre following, lying on his chest as they try to catch their breath. Eventually, Feyre moves off of him and onto the bed beside him. 

“Jesus,” she sighs, hand to her chest, feeling the steady rhythm of her heart level off. “Ah fuck, hang on.” Feyre manages to drag herself off the bed and to the bathroom, returning two minutes later after peeing and cleaning herself off. She brings Rhys a washcloth and a cup of water, taking a large sip before crawling back over to her side of the mattress and curling into his side.

He can’t help but feel a surge of fondness for this girl.

A few minutes of sated silence later, Feyre turns her head and kisses Rhys’ ribcage. 

“So, this is going to be a thing... isn’t it.” It’s not a question.

Rhys shifts so he can see her, tucked into him, and she pulls the sheets over their naked bodies. “I mean, only if you want it to be,” he says, only silently hoping that it would absolutely be a thing.

Feyre thinks about it, nosing at his warm skin absently. “Yeah,” she says, dreamily. “Maybe I do.”

Rhys can’t help but smile. There are lots of _things_  but he’ll take whatever kind of thing Feyre will give to him.

“What drinks did you even get?”

He laughs.


End file.
